The Journey

I stand by the window of an old train,
Screeching along through torrents of rain.
By meadows of joy and forests of dark sorrow.
Through unknown towns, unknown villages and the countryside.

Truly, here I am alone — but an observer
Of a fleeting moment of time.
Like a prisoner, who before the gallows,
Looks through the bars of his prison —
And finds beauty in the smallest things,
And philosophy in his sadness.
Forgotten, when his journey has ended,
And mourned only by raindrops flowing down a window.